


Hollow

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Teasing, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 11:45:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6468892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There’s something fundamentally different, Izaya thinks, about seeing feats of inhuman strength at a distance, about seeing Shizuo work on inanimate objects or those unfortunate souls stupid enough to get in throwing range, and quite another to experience it as he is now, with Shizuo’s widespread hand at his shoulders bracing him absolutely motionless with no apparent effort." Orihara Izaya hates Heiwajima Shizuo, but then, he's not fond of himself either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow

Heiwajima Shizuo is strong.

It doesn’t take a genius to know this. Izaya thinks it might be the best-known fact in Ikebukuro, a piece of gossip so well-circulated it’s as good as useless to him in his role as all-purpose information broker. Everyone in the city has seen Shizuo unearth a traffic sign, or lift a car, or fling a vending machine the length of a city block. Izaya knows that better than anyone, has had to learn that anything in the city can be a makeshift weapon the moment Shizuo’s hands close on it, has trained himself to behave accordingly just to stay in one piece. But there’s something fundamentally different, Izaya thinks, about seeing feats of inhuman strength at a distance, about seeing Shizuo work on inanimate objects or those unfortunate souls stupid enough to get in throwing range, and quite another to experience it as he is now, with Shizuo’s widespread hand at his shoulders bracing him absolutely motionless with no apparent effort.

“Stop moving,” Shizuo growls now, as Izaya’s fingers curl helplessly against the sheets of Shizuo’s bed to make fists on the rumpled cloth. “You’re wiggling too much.”

“Come on, Shizu-chan,” Izaya teases, lilting the words into the best singsongy mockery he can make of them with heat pressing against the inside of his chest to choke the sound into a groan instead of a taunt. “Don’t you like your partners to be responsive?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls, his fingers tensing until the short-cut weight of his fingernails is dragging against the top of Izaya’s spine. “Just hold _still_.”

“Aren’t you even going to say please?” Izaya says, but then Shizuo’s fingers shove forward into him, and the last of his words swing breathless and tense as his spine curves to arch him against the sheets. His body goes hot, his knees slide over the sheets, and for a minute he can’t even think to speak for the pressure pushing him open to the friction of Shizuo’s fingers.

“ _Please_ ,” Shizuo grates, biting off the word until he’s more than undone any original meaning it may have once had. His fingers slide against Izaya’s shoulders, his palm shoving hard as his thumb and index finger close against the back of the other’s neck; Izaya can feel himself pinned to stillness, can feel the casual weight of Shizuo’s hand locking him into place more thoroughly than rope or shackles could do. The thought makes his skin flush, twitches hard at his cock; and then Shizuo’s fingers draw back, the friction of them dragging promise through Izaya’s body, and Izaya shuts his eyes and bites his lip and hisses a half-stifled groan as Shizuo shoves into him again.

“I thought you wanted this,” Shizuo says, the words nearly an accusation as his fingers stretch Izaya open, as the rough movement of his hand pushes heat into Izaya’s body and tightens reflexive strain into his fingers. “Isn’t that why you come over here?”

“Who said I didn’t want it?” Izaya wants to know. “Give me a third, Shizu-chan.”

“Jesus,” Shizuo groans, but it sounds like heat more than irritation. “You can’t take a third.”

“Then I definitely can’t take your cock,” Izaya tells him, turning his head against the sheets so he can fix Shizuo with the dark of his stare through the weight of his hair. “Give me three, monster.”

Shizuo’s face darkens. “Fuck you,” he says, and draws his fingers back in a rush, his movements gone choppy with the edge of irritation Izaya wanted to elicit. He leans in closer, pushes harder against Izaya’s shoulders as if the other isn’t already completely held down by the force of his hold, and then he pushes against Izaya’s entrance with the strain of three fingers at once and Izaya has to shut his eyes, has to gasp against the sheets for air as his body eases to the stretch of Shizuo’s fingers in him.

“You can’t take it,” Shizuo is saying, but he’s still pushing in deeper, and Izaya is shaking at the bed but Shizuo’s hold is bracing him in place and the pain is melting to fire in his veins, is catching to adrenaline in his blood. His fingers are flexing at the sheets, his hand working on an unthinking attempt at control, but it doesn’t make a difference; Shizuo’s forcing him open, and Izaya’s giving way to him, and there’s no space in Izaya’s head for anything other than the heat. It’s not until Shizuo pauses, not until Shizuo is drawing his fingers back in preparation for another thrust, that Izaya can find air for his lungs, can find the liquid drawl of a taunt at the back of his throat to cover up the way his whole body is shaking with tension.

“Is that the best you’ve got, Shizu-chan?” Izaya takes a breath, holding it against the inside of his chest as he looks back at Shizuo; with his lungs tight on the weight of his breath he can let his lashes dip heavy into amusement, can even manage the drag of a smirk against his lips. “I can barely tell you’re inside me at all.”

Shizuo’s face clouds, his brows drawing low over the dark of his eyes and his mouth weighting into a frown. “Liar,” he says, and his fingers tense at Izaya’s neck, his hand pushes hard enough to strain Izaya’s breathing under the weight. “Do you even know how to tell the truth anymore?”

“What’s the matter?” Izaya asks, feeling his spine prickle with the premonition of danger, tasting the reckless heat of laughter at the back of his tongue. “Did I hit a nerve?” His grin is going wider, gaining sincerity off the weight of his words even as Shizuo’s gaze darkens into a glare and his chin dips down to cast his face to shadow. “Is your sense of self-worth really _that_ tied up with how big your dick is?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls, and that’s all the warning he gives before he shoves his fingers back into Izaya, hard, driving in with enough force that they sink in past the first knuckle in a single movement. Izaya’s eyes go wide, his voice dies to a choking whimper, and he can feel his entire body tense against Shizuo’s touch, can feel the strain of the force spreading up his spine like he’s feeling it through his whole body and not just for the few inches of contact they have. Shizuo twists his hand, working in deeper by a half-inch, and Izaya can’t breathe, can’t find even the familiar defense of a quip or a taunt against the back of his tongue. His spine is arching, his fingers fisting at the sheets, and he’s achingly hard against his stomach, even the edge of pain stretching him open is just flushing hotter and harder in his cock until he can feel the head going slick against his stomach.

“Fuck you,” Shizuo is saying, his voice a growl in counterpoint to the drag of his fingers as he pulls back, as he thrusts in again in a slick slide of movement that Izaya can feel strain all the way up to that hand casually bracing against the back of his shoulders. “You don’t make any _sense_ , Izaya-kun.” His fingers twist, his knuckles stretch, and Izaya’s hips jerk forward in a helpless jolt of heat, electricity scorching in his veins into need too strong to be easily labelled as pain or pleasure either one. “Just keep your mouth shut and hold still.”

“As you command, Shizu-chan,” Izaya gasps, and he intends it to be mockery but he can’t find the breath to keep talking so he falls obediently silent after all, closing his lips tight on the whimpering moans that want to break free with each drive of Shizuo’s fingers into him. He’s clenching around the other’s touch, his reaction too involuntary and instinctive for him to restrain even knowing Shizuo can feel it, even knowing that each wave of heat is tensing telltale against Shizuo’s fingers, but Shizuo doesn’t say anything; he’s gone silent but for the sound of his breathing, until all Izaya can hear from him is the raw edge of heat on his inhales and the wet slick of his fingers moving with each thrust. Izaya’s fingers have eased against the sheets, the first shudder of too-much is lessening; the pressure is still intense, the heat of the strain inside him still blinding, but he can breathe, now, shallow, desperate gasps to push back the edge of dizzy need that make him feel like he’s drowning. Shizuo’s hold is a weight and not a brace, now, his fingers are going gentle against Izaya’s neck, and Izaya can feel the panic receding, can feel the edge of stress flickering and fading from under his skin. It’s a relief physically to feel the tension unwinding from his body to let him sag across Shizuo’s bed, but he can feel the easing like a loss, like something in the palm of his hand is sliding away and out of his grasp. He takes a breath, tests the weight of the air on the back of his tongue; and then “Aren’t you ready yet?” with all the biting dig of a whipcrack on the words.

The rhythm of Shizuo’s movement stalls, stills; Izaya can feel the weight of Shizuo’s fingers inside him, can feel the shift as the other’s steady force goes slack with uncertainty. When he blinks back over his shoulder Shizuo is staring at him, the frown at his lips still there but the crease over his forehead eased, lightening his expression out of anger and into something uncannily close to concern.

“No way,” he says, and even his voice is softer than it was. “You’re too tight, you can’t--”

“Can’t you get it up, Shizu-chan?” Izaya cuts him off, letting his gaze drop to land against the front of Shizuo’s boxers and the clear evidence that that, at least, is definitely _not_ the problem. “It’s a common ailment, you know, nothing to be ashamed of. If we mentioned it to Shinra I’m sure he could--”

“Shut up,” Shizuo snaps. “I’m plenty hard, that’s not--”

“Then you should _fuck_ me,” Izaya tells him, snapping the words off until they bleed past the edge of command and into a taunt, taking on the rough edge of a dare in his throat as his lashes flutter dark over his gaze. “Come on, Shizu-chan, give it to me.”

“Be _quiet_ ,” Shizuo tells him, but he’s sliding his fingers back out of the other’s body, leaving an ache of loss that shudders up Izaya’s spine with their removal. He can feel reflex tensing him on nothing, his body as dissatisfied with the loss of the stretch as it was overwhelmed by its presence, but Izaya’s attention is tracking Shizuo’s fingers instead of the ache inside him, his gaze dropping to follow the weight of Shizuo’s thumb hooking inside his boxers to push the elastic free of his hip and down his thigh. The fabric catches, the thin weight of it clinging to Shizuo’s cock for a moment; and then it slides free, and Izaya can feel his eyelashes go impossibly heavy at the heat he can see flushing Shizuo’s cock hard at his stomach. Shizuo’s always bigger than Izaya remembers, as if Izaya’s imagination can’t quite keep up with reality in this any more than in regards to Shizuo’s inhuman strength, and Izaya has to turn his head away and down just to keep Shizuo from seeing the way his mouth comes open on the surge of breathless want that hits him and twitches his cock harder between his spread-open knees.

“Here,” Shizuo is saying, and Izaya can’t see him with his face turned away but he can imagine, can picture the slick drag of Shizuo’s hand over himself as he presses lube against the flush of his cock. Izaya’s aching, now, trembling all over with anticipation that would be a giveaway if Shizuo were paying any attention to the weight of his hand at Izaya’s shoulders. But he’s not, and so it’s not, and even when Izaya shifts his weight so he can reach down and curl his fingers around his own length Shizuo barely notices other than to hiss and brace his hold tighter at Izaya’s movement. “Is this what you want, Izaya-kun?”

“I don’t know,” Izaya says against the sheets, feeling his voice skid high in his chest on the surge of anticipation too bright to completely fight back. “Why don’t you fuck me and we can find out?”

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, “You’re such a _pest_ ,” but he sounds distracted too, like he’s easing away the rough edge of frustration from his throat with the drag of his fingers over himself. He’s rocking in closer, Izaya can feel Shizuo’s wrist bump against him with each of the strokes he’s taking; and then there’s stillness, the rhythm of action giving way to the strain of anticipation, and Izaya lets his hold on himself go so he can reach up overhead instead and press his palm hard against the wall at the head of the bed.

“Come on,” Izaya says, and it’s not even a taunt anymore, it’s just heat uncurling from the pattern of his ribs and turning itself to sound in his throat. “Come on, Shizu-chan, come _on_.”

“I _am_ ,” Shizuo snaps, “shut up, Izaya-kun” and there’s the slick heat of his cock pushing against Izaya’s entrance, and Izaya has to take a breath and hold it in expectation of the pressure to come. His heart is pounding, his thoughts teetering a razor’s edge between anticipation and fear, and then Shizuo shudders an exhale and starts to push forward. For a moment Izaya resists, reflex and conscious thought both in agreement for a heartbeat of time; and then Shizuo groans, and Izaya lets his breath go, and Shizuo’s cock stretches him wide as it slides forward and into him. Izaya’s back arches, his exhale turns into a moan, but his hand is still against the wall and more importantly Shizuo’s hand is still at his shoulders, the unthinking angle of that thumb and forefinger pinning Izaya’s shoulders flat to the bed until all his strength at once couldn’t break him free even if he tried. Shizuo takes a breath, audibly bracing himself for his next thrust, and Izaya wants to say _stop_ , wants to say _more_ , and it doesn’t matter because Shizuo is rocking forward before Izaya can make up his mind, sliding deeper into Izaya by inches. The movement is easy, both their bodies slick with the lubrication still wet across Shizuo’s fingers, but Izaya can feel the force like a physical blow, can feel his body straining around the breadth of Shizuo moving into him with each inch gained. He’s panting against the sheets, gasping air that he can’t make space for in his body, and then Shizuo pauses, hesitating in his movement to say “Izaya-kun?” in a voice made strange as much by the hesitancy on it as the heat rough on his tongue.

Izaya gasps for air. His whole body is shaking, clenching helplessly around Shizuo and quivering until it’s hard to take a breath at all and impossible to gain a full lungful of air, but he can feel himself burning with heat, can feel his skin prickling electric even as his heartbeat throbs aching pressure through his limbs. “More,” he says against the sheets, so softly that Shizuo can’t hear it, so quietly the sharp edge of the want is lost even to his own ears. He tenses his fingers at the wall, digs his fingertips in as hard as he can against the support, and in the ache of friction at his skin he finds the strength for a taunt.

“Shizu-chan,” he says, and his voice is shaking but that won’t matter, not when Shizuo’s hand tightens so immediately to the sound of the nickname. “Is this _really_ the best you can do?”

Shizuo doesn’t answer aloud. His fingers tighten, his weight rocks forward, and then he pulls back by a half-inch and Izaya has a brief moment of terrified adrenaline, a split-second to realize he may be in over his head, that he may have asked for more than he can actually take. Then Shizuo thrusts forward, and Izaya’s self-awareness gives way completely, his entire being given over to the wail of sound forced out of him as Shizuo’s cock sinks into him. Izaya can’t breathe, can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed; all he’s seeing is white anyway, all he’s feeling is his entire body flashing to electric heat as Shizuo’s movement overrides and dominates all his senses. Shizuo’s hand at the back of his neck is the only thing holding Izaya in place, the only point of reference in a world gone dizzy on sensation, and then Shizuo’s hold tightens, and his hips snap forward, and Izaya’s throat gives up the last of his air in a helpless moan as the whole of Shizuo’s cock forces him open.

It’s too much. It was always going to be too much, Izaya thinks dizzily; there’s no way he is ever going to be able to hold himself together for this, no way repetition will take the edge of panic off this experience. It’s that that he wants, that promise of heat and pressure so intense it only seems to grow stronger with repeated experience, and even as he’s thinking it Shizuo’s pulling back, bracing his slick fingers wide against the small of Izaya’s back to push him flat to the bed before the other thrusts forward again. Izaya’s legs ache from the angle of spreading wide enough to allow space for Shizuo’s knees, his cock is throbbing dull heat against the sheets, but it’s all secondary, the pain and the heat equally unimportant to the stretch of Shizuo fucking into him again. He can feel the pressure run all up his spine, like a wave of electricity he can sense a moment before it crackles over his awareness, and Shizuo makes some incoherent noise of raw appreciation and draws back to drive forward again. Izaya’s shoulders slide forward by a half-inch, stall at the hold of Shizuo’s fingers, and he chokes for air, gasping oxygen whenever he can as Shizuo finds a rhythm of thrusting into him. It’s rough, too fast and lacking any finesse, but then Shizuo doesn’t really need to demonstrate any skill in this, not when Izaya can feel his whole body straining every time Shizuo’s cock pushes into him. The pressure clears his thoughts, sweeps the scatter of his hectic mind aside as unimportant until there’s just the heat, just the heavy weight of Shizuo moving into him like he’s filling up all the gaps in Izaya’s existence, like he’s replacing the empty space with the overwhelming reality of his presence. Izaya thinks it might be replacing him, too, that Shizuo might be pushing aside whatever framework makes up Izaya’s own self to make space for his own, and that should be alarming but he can’t remember why, can’t feel anything past the pressure and the friction taking over his body, trembling in his legs and stretching him open and dragging an unstudied moan from so far back in his throat he can feel it in his chest even as it spills from his lips.

“Izaya-kun,” Shizuo is saying, the words going heavy with heat, but Izaya doesn’t answer except to whimper through another of Shizuo’s thrusts, except to let Shizuo fuck farther into the space of his body. The hand at his back is moving, slippery fingers sliding down around his hip, but Izaya doesn’t move to lift himself off the bed to help Shizuo’s movement; he can’t trust the tremor in his knees, can’t take his weight on his shaking arms, and then Shizuo’s fingers are bumping the swollen heat of his cock and even the thought of moving evaporates, replaced by a choked-off gasp on Izaya’s tongue as his body tenses, as his hips buck forward into a reflexive half-thrust that’s the best he can manage from the angle he’s at.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo hisses, and his fingers are closing around Izaya’s length, and his hold is too tight and too rough but Izaya can’t find the air to tell him so, and then he drags up hard and Izaya’s whole body tenses useless resistance to the binding weight of Shizuo over him. He moans against the sheets, something too formless for him to even pretend it to the shape of _Shizu-chan_ , and then Shizuo strokes over him again and Izaya runs out of air and can’t remember how to take another breath. Shizuo’s the one breathing, Shizuo’s the one moving over him, in him, around him, it doesn’t matter, it’s all too much, his strength and his size and the heavy pant of his breathing, and Izaya shudders convulsively and feels himself break, feels the excess rush over him to swamp his awareness to white-out heat. He’s coming, he knows on some distant level, clenching around Shizuo’s cock moving into him and spilling across the rough drag of Shizuo’s palm, but for the first few heartbeats it’s not even relief he’s feeling; it’s more like being unmade, like the hollow pieces of himself are giving way at last to crack and shatter in Shizuo’s fingers. Shizuo takes an inhale, the thrust of his hips stutters forward; and then he’s groaning, and coming, and Izaya lets the heat fill him up, lets himself give way completely for a few infinite heartbeats of surrender.

It’s Shizuo who pulls away first. It always is, after; the most Izaya can manage is to choke an inhale of half-protest and half-relief as Shizuo slides out of him, to roll himself sideways to pant against Shizuo’s bed while the strain in his body gives way to achy aftermath.

“Izaya-kun,” Shizuo says from the end of the bed. His voice sounds strange, low and echoey to Izaya’s hearing; Izaya doesn’t know if it’s the shape of the room, or the tone of Shizuo’s voice, or just his own ears that are misinterpreting the sound, reading concern into the resonance when there is none, where there can be none. “Are you okay?”

Izaya shuts his eyes, smiling into the dark of his closed lids. “Shizu-chan,” he says, savouring the syllables on his tongue like they’re his identity, like the lilt of his voice under them will define who he is. “I really, really hate you.”

The words taste hollow on his tongue.


End file.
